


To Walk These Hallowed Grounds

by loki_godofmischiefandlies



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I'm not sure yet, It's not as cracked out as it seems, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Reunion Fic, The one in which Arthur works at a renaissance faire and Merlin hates him for it, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-17 03:00:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3512720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loki_godofmischiefandlies/pseuds/loki_godofmischiefandlies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin has waited over a thousand years for Arthur to return. Loneliness, depression, guilt, anger, he has felt it all. Although now it is mostly anger. Tired of waiting in isolation for the Once and Future King, Merlin has built a life for himself. He is still reluctant to leave the lake for longer than a few days at a time though, but when he gets called in as an Arthurian Myth expert to help operate what will be the largest Renaissance Faire in the United States, he cannot ignore the pull.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There's a plaque on the door now, one that reads **Merlin E. Rys, PhD** , and sometimes his more mischievous students will use a white board marker to put an M between the 'E' and the 'R'. Today, it's written in red. Merlin wipes the letter off with a fond smile, the marker staining the pad of his thumb red. It is a small price to pay when one teaches Medieval History, Mythology, and Literature at the local university. He has long since gotten used to the jokes; most of his students find it hysterical that their loony professor, who can't be much older than them (Merlin's been using a glamour, but apparently he would age well even if he wasn't immortal), is named after the Merlin of the myths and legends that he makes them study. The hallway is empty. Nobody comes in this early except for the cleaning staff and Merlin, so he doesn't bother fishing for his keys in order to unlock the door to his office. Instead, he simply waves his hand at it, eyes flashing gold for a brief instant, and the lock clicks. 

His office is small, comfortable, the early morning sun trickling in through plastic blinds that create lines along the burgundy carpet. Merlin watches the dust motes dance for a moment before he shuts the door, slipping his satchel off of his shoulder and letting it settle on his large desk with a thunk. He hangs his coat on the rack behind his chair and settles in. The shelves on the wall are bowed in at the middle from the weight of all of the books he has accumulated over the years; the maintenance staff is less than pleased with him, has been begging him for the past two years to either buy a separate shelf or take some of them home, but Merlin has yet to cave to their whims. Instead, he cast a reinforcing spell on the shelves. They won't break for hundreds of years, not unless someone goes at them with the intention of breaking them. On the top shelf sits a glass case. It takes up almost half of the shelf, and inside, nestled in a bed of crushed red velvet, is a sword. Merlin's students have taken to it with fascination, eyes raking hungrily over the runes engraved in gold, mouths parted in awe at the ancient weapon. Most people believe it to be a copy of the legendary sword Excalibur, the sword that Merlin had uncovered during his dissertation years when he finally,  _finally_ got permission to bring a team in to excavate the site that was now being called by its true name: Camelot. Merlin had, unbeknownst to anyone, made an exact replica of the sword, one that would withstand any dating test, and taken the real one for himself. Kilgharrah's warnings still echoed in his ears. None but Arthur would ever wield the sword. 

It had taken Merlin hundreds of years to plant seeds of fact among the tangled weeds of myth and legend, myths that did Arthur honor and glory but failed to let his true nature shine through, but once planted, they eventually put forth a promising harvest. There was a slew of authors that Arthurian scholars considered credible now; nobody knew that they were  _all_ Merlin, but nobody had to know either. And now he was sitting at the top, the one who knew more about the legendary King Arthur than anyone else, and it didn't sting anymore to talk about his long lost friend. Sometimes his students catch him staring wistfully at a page in a book, or once, tearing up at a tapestry that had been discovered at a different site, one that depicted Arthur battling a dragon, Excalibur in hand and the Knights all around him. Of course, the tapestry had been crafted many years after Arthur's passing, but it had been made soon enough that the color of the prince's hair, the Pendragon crest on his shoulder, everything had been done in breathtakingly accurate detail. They never say anything though, the students. All they see is a man truly in love with his work, and it inspires them in a way that makes Merlin's heart swell with pride. He has seen ten of his students go on to study history and literature in graduate school. One of his first students is nearly finished with her dissertation; she'll be a professor of medieval history as well, although she did not specialize in Arthurian Myth. 

Eventually Merlin is shaken from his memories and he turns on the computer sitting at his desk. _Computers. The only thing more easily duped by magic than people._ There are a few emails sitting in his inbox; the department newsletter, a few requests for deadline extensions (they'll all be granted, of course, with the exception of Albert's paper...that boy would do anything to get out of an assignment), a plea from his publisher to 'finish the last damn chapter of that book, people are frothing at the mouth over here'...Merlin can feel his eyes glazing over. He desperately needs a cup of tea, and he's about to close the browser when the last email catches his eye. 

**American Faire Society, History Expertise Needed!!**

He clicks on the email without thinking. There's something warm in his gut, something exciting, and he reads the email quickly. 

**Dear Dr. Rys,**

**My name is Gail Norman and I am a member of the American Faire Society. We are planning a renaissance faire of epic proportions and we could use your help. It has been decided that we will be heralding the birth of what is predicted to be the largest renaissance faire in the country by making this year's theme King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. It's a little washed up, I know, but people love it and there is already a huge fuss about it.**

**We would all like for this to be as accurate as possible while keeping it within the fantasy realm of a renaissance faire. Therefore, we would like to request your assistance. The planning and preparation is not beginning until March, and I admittedly looked at your university's website and saw that you will be on sabbatical next term. We would be honored to have you at the faire, and we would be more than willing to compensate you for time and travel. Please let me know what your thoughts are on the matter.**

**Gail Norman**

Merlin stares at the screen in shock for a long time, and then lets out a choked noise. After a few seconds, he decides that it is laughter, body shaking, tear inducing, belly-aching laughter. The idea is frankly ridiculous; he has marveled and cringed at the idea of renaissance faires for a long time, but for some reason the email seems earnest and these people could do with his help. His sabbatical leave is necessitated by the university, and because he has been doing nothing  _but_ research for the past twelve years, he has already decided that he would be having none of it. The thought of an entire term of doing nothing followed by a summer of doing nothing before he could return to work was painful. He already knows that he would spend most of it sitting on the damp banks of the lake behind his cottage, the Lake of Avalon as he knew it, Mirror Lake to the kinder locals, and "the pond where that weird hermit lives" to the university students that  _didn't_ take his classes, waiting for Arthur to break the hauntingly still surface of the water and start hollering at him to start a fire and mend his armor. Rage bubbles up in his chest, dark and unwelcome, and so Merlin types out a reply before he can reconsider.

**Dear Gail,**

**You can count me in.**

**Merlin E. Rys**

The email sends with a little swoosh from the computer's speakers and Merlin grins. 

He's tired of sitting around in the same old town; he's been here for over 1,000 years and there has been no sign that Arthur is returning yet. It's time for him to see the world. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you think magic excis...egg...existed?" 
> 
> "I think it still does. I think it's just sleeping."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know that this idea is absolutely ridiculous but it bloomed in my mind and had to be written...so sorry not sorry? I hope you enjoy, thanks to everyone who left Kudos already, comments and critiques are always welcome. As always I am unbeta'd, and I do not own Merlin.

_I never realized how empty this place could look_ Merlin thinks as he looks around the cottage. It is the same cottage that he had built along the shores of the Lake of Avalon many,  _many_ years ago, but he has, of course, updated it over time. The original fireplace still stands, the stones that he built it with stained black from over 1,000 years' worth of fires being burnt in its hearth, but the ash and soot has been scraped out, scattered across the garden behind the cottage to fertilize the ground that will remain untilled for the first time in several years. The place is spotless, the raggedy sofa he had bought in the late 70s sagging in the middle but free of dust for once, the plethora of bookshelves lining the walls gleaming in the sunlight. Excalibur sits in its case on the mantle, and it is so heavily warded that even Merlin is wary about going near the sword until he lowers the protections he has placed upon it. There are two bags at his feet and his rucksack sits comfortably at his lower back. He has not prepared for a trip of this duration since his days with Arthur. Muttering one last protective spell over the place, Merlin turns and leaves, not even sparing the Lake a glance. 

*o*o*o*o*o*

The airport is a riot of bodies, people sprinting to and from gates, at least twenty languages being fired back and forth, and Merlin loses himself in it for a moment. There's a magic to the place, the thrill of travel and the mundane power of hundreds of untrained sorcerers buzzing through him like caffeine. He hands his bags over to the woman at the counter, smiling softly as she weighs them, tags them, and then takes his passport from him. 

"Alright Mr. Rys, here is your boarding pass. You're Row K, seat 43. Your flight will be departing from Terminal 3," she says, handing him back the small book and a boarding pass. Merlin takes it, offers her a grateful smile, and sweeps off towards security. His thumb traces over the seal stamped on the front of the passport; it is a rich burgundy, not too far off from the Pendragon scarlet he is used to, and the glittering gold is much the same, but he wishes that it were a regal dragon pressed into the heavy vinyl, not a lion, a unicorn, and a crown. The unicorn makes his chest ache, memories of the quest that he had gone on with Arthur (well...after Arthur, but still) to save Camelot from a dreadful curse after the idiot shot one of the regal beasts down. There are no unicorns in England now, and it fills Merlin with great sadness. Most magical creatures are gone, either extinct or in hiding, waiting for the day when the world will once again welcome magic with open arms. 

Merlin barely notices when he makes it to the security gate. He slips off his shoes, his jacket, sticks his rucksack in a plastic bin, his shoes in another, and walks through the strange contraption that will show some stranger what lay beneath his clothes. He is grateful that they cannot detect magic; he would certainly never be permitted to board a plane if they could. 

His seat is stiff, the headrest wrapping around his ears to support his neck should he fall asleep during the flight. He turns the little TV screen in front of him off, grimacing. He has never liked the contraptions. A little boy is placed in the seat next to him, all bubbling enthusiasm with his messy blond hair and flashing eyes. 

"Just let me know if he's a problem sir, they messed up our tickets but I'm right across the aisle," his mother says, offering him a gentle smile. Her eyes are the same soft shade of green as her son's. 

"It won't be a problem," Merlin replies, slipping his book out of his rucksack before stuffing the back beneath his seat for takeoff. 

*o*o*o*o*o*

"What are you reading?" the boy asks a few hours later, bleary-eyed from his nap but too excited to reach whatever his destination is to go back to sleep. His mother is snoring softly across the aisle. 

"It's called Sir Gawain and the Green Knight," Merlin answers, showing him the cover. The boy perks up at the picture.

"Oh, can you tell me what it's about?  _Please_? I love knights!" the boy pleads. There's something in those big eyes of his that makes Merlin's lips curl up in a smile. There is not much difference between this boy's enthusiasm and his students', only a lack of ability to understand more complex details...that will come in time. He slips the book into the pocket of the seat in front of him and clears his throat. 

"I can tell you many stories about knights if you'd like. I teach a class on King Arthur," Merlin reveals. The boy's mouth parts in an 'o' of excitement and he bounces up and down in his seat a little bit. 

"Would you really? Oh thank you!" he hisses, elated but trying his best to please his mother and her earlier request for him to be still and silent as best he can. 

"Hm..." Merlin glances at his watch. They have five and a half hours left in their flight. He cracks a grin of his own. "I have time to start from the beginning. The tale of King Arthur starts when he was just a baby. King Uther had gone to a powerful sorceress in the hopes that she would be able to make it so that he and his wife, Ygraine, could have a baby..." 

*o*o*o*o*o*

By the time the plane lands, shuddering and roaring along the runway, Merlin's throat is hoarse from telling the tale, but he presses on. There is something therapeutic about telling the tale over and over again, and so Merlin's voice hardly wavers as he tells of Arthur's death, of metal piercing skin, of a boat set out on a lake.

"Wait, but if King Arthur is gone...who rules Camelot?" the boy asks, brows dipped and bottom lip pouting. 

"His wife, Queen Guinevere. She ruled Camelot for many, many years. The peace that her King brought to the land flourished under her care, and the people of Camelot were happy and healthy. Some even think that magic returned to the land during her reign, but...well, we don't actually know if magic existed or not," Merlin explains. 

"Do you think magic excis...egg...existed?" 

"I think it still does. I think it's just sleeping. That's the best part of the tale, of the prophecy," Merlin smiles, leaning in conspiratorially. He can see the boy's mother smiling at them, and he winks before returning his gaze to her son. "They say that one day King Arthur will come back from the Lake of Avalon to return peace, unity, and magic to all of Albion." 

"What is Albion?"

"Albion is what they used to call Great Britain." 

"But we already have a Queen. I mean, she's old but she has sons too. How can King Arthur come back if she's there?" the boy seems more confused now, and Merlin can't help but chuckle. 

"That's why it's a story. We know King Arthur really did exist, but the magic of the tale...well, we'll just have to wait and see now won't we?" 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They really weren't kidding when they said they wanted historical and mythological accuracy here." 
> 
> Merlin finds more than he was expecting at the faire.

The faire grounds are a vast, sprawling plain of healthy grass and dirt paths that will eventually be packed down by heavy foot traffic. For now, clouds of dust billow up around Merlin's hiking boots. There are already tents and buildings scattered about the grounds, permanent fixtures he has been told. They plan on keeping this faire alive for as long as they can, hence the enormously popular theme for the debut. 

"Of course, we will have walls built to hide the more modern fixtures when the faire begins, temporary ones, but they'll block the view of the dormitories, offices, and bathing areas. Our actors are all paid, provided with room and board, and some of our employees have actually purchased the shops that have been set up for them. I know that our blacksmith and his daughter will be living in their shop permanently, and so their shop has been cleverly modernized," the woman showing Merlin around chatters. He had originally been greeted by Gail Norman, who had sent him the email, but she had been swept up in some planning meetings, leaving Merlin to the hands of an overenthusiastic guide. 

"People actually live here?" he asks in surprise. The woman, Jane he remembers, laughs warmly and pats his arm. 

"A lot of people find the notion to be...romantic. Some of our permanent residents want to live a more green lifestyle. Others want to escape reality. We don't tend to ask questions as long as they pay their rent. For some of them though, the blacksmith, the bowyer, their shops are their genuine livelihoods. Tom makes wrought iron fences and suits of armor for professional jousters during the off season, and Reggie has made bows since he was a boy," Jane says, gesturing towards the little shop a few hundred metres away. A steady stream of smoke is rising from what Merlin can only assume is the forge, and the clang of a hammer on metal rings in his ears. For a moment, he can scarcely breathe, but he shakes the feeling away and smiles. 

"That is fascinating. You said the blacksmith's name was Tom?" 

"Yep. Tom and his daughter Gwen, they're absolutely lovely. His son is around somewhere too, but he tends to get himself into trouble more often than he does actual work."

Merlin's vision swims, but he just manages to keep himself from fainting. 

*o*o*o*o*o*

The room that the faire has provided Merlin with is nice, only a bit smaller than the room he has in his cottage, but he can't pay attention to the space as he is too busy sitting at the edge of the bed with his head between his knees, trying not to vomit. He hadn't even seen Tom or Gwen yet, this hadn't even been the first time he had seen one of his friends from the past reincarnated, but the circumstances were getting to be too real. Tom a blacksmith again, Gwen helping him in the shop, the son he presumed to be Elyan running about and getting into trouble...things were starting to add up, and while Merlin desperately wanted to see Arthur again he had abandoned the Lake. What if Arthur surfaced while he was away, what if Arthur drowned? 

Merlin reaches towards his bag, ready to dart from the room and board the next plane to London, when someone knocks on the door. 

"Professor Rys? Jane asked me to come by and see that you've settled in alright."

The voice is soft, sweet even, and although the accent is drastically different, Merlin knows it intimately. 

"I...uh," he stands, moving to the other side of the room mechanically. The knob twists in his hand, and he finds himself staring into a pair of soulful brown eyes. "Everything is great, thank you," he breathes. He can scarcely believe it. The other reincarnations had all had slight differences in appearance; at one point, Gwaine had been blond. This Gwen, the first Gwen that Merlin has seen in over 100 years, is exactly the same as she was in Camelot. Soft mocha skin, her chestnut hair hanging in tight ringlets where it has escaped from her half-ponytail, freckles dusting the peaks of her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose. Her full lips are curled up in a warm smile, and it breaks Merlin's heart all over again. Even if Arthur does not return, it kills Merlin every time he has to say goodbye yet again to his friends. 

"If you're all settled in, I could show you around the grounds a bit. I know that Jane already did, but she's a bit...much at times, and us common folk know the place a little bit better than her at this point," Gwen offers. Merlin tries not to notice the way her cheeks are darkening; every time they meet there is that initial spark of attraction in her, and sometimes it doesn't go away naturally. He feels a bit awkward about it every time, but he knows that eventually someone tall, dark, and handsome will sweep her off her feet. 

"That would be great, thank you. Just let me grab my coat," Merlin breathes, unable to heed the voice that is warning him that this is a bad idea in every sense. Every time he tells himself that he will not get close, and every time he fails. 

*o*o*o*o*o*

"And if we go this way we'll be at the tourney," Gwen says, pointing down a lightly wooded path. Merlin can hear the grunts of people fighting, the clack of wood against wood. He cannot help but be drawn to the arena. Part of him wonders who he will find training there. 

"How does the tournament work, exactly? I know that all of you are actors, well, the knights and such, but do they decide who the victor will be or...?" his voice tapers off as Gwen takes him by the arm and leads him down the path. 

"The interesting part about this faire is that we are trying to keep it as historically accurate as possible, which is why they brought you in. All of the men training to be knights for the faire are being trained by an expert in medieval combat. He's fairly young, but he's been doing it since he was a boy, and they say that he's probably the best in the world. I don't think I've ever seen him lose a tournament," Gwen explains. The trees rustle as they walk through them, and something is tugging Merlin along. It feels like magic, it tugs at his core like powerful magic would, but he has never heard of magic existing in such a way in the Americas. Then again, not much research has been done. 

"I'm beginning to like this place," Merlin smiles. He feels at home in a way, despite the electricity powering the dormitories and the shower facilities that they have available. The combination of new and old soothes him, settles the part of him that has been restless since the industrial revolution took place. Gwen's face lights up and she tugs him along a bit more quickly. 

"Then you're going to  _love_ the training."

*o*o*o*o*o*

The arena looks so much like the one that had been in Camelot that Merlin has to take a moment to remember to breathe. Dust is flying as pairs of men run at each other, and the only thing that reminds him that he is in the year 2015 as opposed to ancient Camelot is the fact that many of the men fighting are wearing shorts or joggers. Gwen waves at one of the men who is resting on the sidelines, sipping water out of a green and orange plastic bottle. Even from this distance, Merlin knows it is Elyan. The shock is starting to wear off. He has yet to see any of his friends reincarnated alone; Gwaine and Percival found him during the Crusades, Leon and Lancelot had fought side by side during the 100 Years' War, Elyan, Gwen, and Lancelot had all appeared during World War I, Gwaine and Percival again during World War II...whenever war sprung up for England, it seemed that his friends were there. Images flash through his mind; him holding Gwaine as he bled out on the sands of a foreign land, Percival later throwing himself recklessly into a battle that resulted in much the same; Leon struggling and failing to prevent a Frenchman's sword from piercing Lancelot's side, and later dying a bitter, lonely death at the age of 54; Elyan slipping along mud and blood filled trenches with Lancelot's arm slung over his shoulder, Gwen frantically trying to piece her lover back together in a poorly equipped field hospital; Gwaine vomiting with Percival at his back as they liberated their first Nazi death camp together...

"-even though he's always getting yelled...are you alright?" Gwen's voice tapers off, concern highlighting her features. Merlin clears his throat and nods. 

"Yes, sorry. It must be the jetlag, I've been having trouble concentrating all day," he smiles. It is hardly a lie; he cannot concentrate, and his inability to do so is definitely the result of a time difference...just not in the way that Gwen is thinking. 

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I've been keeping you. We can head back if you'd like to get some sleep," Gwen offers, and Merlin is struck by how gentle her soul is once more. 

"I'm fine, really. If I go to sleep now, my body will only have a harder time adjusting later," he says. She accepts it with a nod and then waves Elyan over. 

"Hello," Elyan holds out his hand after wiping it on his joggers, "I'm Elyan. You must be Professor Rys."

"Merlin, please," Merlin smiles, shaking Elyan's hand. It is rough, calloused from years of blacksmithing and now combat training, much as it was originally. 

"It's a pleasure to have you here. Gwen and I are huge fans of your research, we read your first book when it came out, the one on the history of Camelot. Our father took us to see Excalibur when it got taken to the Smithsonian last year," Elyan rambles. Merlin's eyebrows raise in surprise; Elyan had always been smart, but he had never appeared bookish before. He supposes it has to do with his soul being drawn to its own history. 

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," Merlin replies, leaning against the wooden wall of the arena. 

"Hey, Elyan, quit chatting and get back to work!" 

*o*o*o*o*o*

Gwen draws Merlin into a conversation about his work a few moments later, and he is so wrapped up in explaining to her the architecture of the citadel that he pays very little attention to what is going on with the knights. Their conversation doesn't stop until a few men walk by, rubbing at sore spots. 

"If he weren't our instructor, I swear I'd kick his ass." 

The grumble catches Merlin's attention, and he glances up just in time to see Gwaine twist his arm to show a bruise to Percival. His heart lodges itself somewhere in his throat; if so many of them are in one place...he shakes his head. There had been no disturbances in the Lake for over a thousand years. He was beginning to doubt Kilgharrah's prophecy, but this was getting to be a bit much. Gwaine notices Merlin staring, and turns to him with a flirtatious smirk. 

"Well hello there," he practically purrs, sauntering over and straddling the bench one level below Merlin and Gwen. "M'lady," he adds, taking Gwen's hand and kissing it before returning his predatory gaze to Merlin. Gwen lets out a chuckle and swats his shoulder. 

"Gwaine, stop it. You are too much sometimes," she chides, and the smouldering look slips off of Gwaine's face to be replaced by a genuinely warm smile. 

"Sorry, couldn't help it. I'm Gwaine, if Gwen's scolding didn't give it away already." Merlin shakes his hand with a chuckle. 

"Merlin." 

"Holy shit, Merlin, Percival, Gwen...they really weren't kidding when they said they wanted historical and mythological accuracy here," Gwaine laughs, jerking his head towards the blond now standing at his shoulder. 

"Hey," Percival offers, as short spoken as ever. "Call me Percy, please." 

"So, were you complaining about our King again?" Gwen questions, a smirk dancing across her face. Gwaine lets out a melodramatic groan and slumps sideways, resting against Merlin's knee despite the fact that (in his mind at least) they met five seconds ago. 

"He's the worst Gwen. An absolute slave driver, and if I hear "footwork Gwaine, footwork!" one more time I swear I'm going to show him how a foot works when lodged firmly up one's ass," Gwaine whines, flipping a few strands of hair out of his face and pouting. 

"Well if you would work on your footwork, he wouldn't have to yell at you all the time,"  a new voice enters the fray, coming from behind Merlin, and the warlock jumps. He spins in his seat to see a man who is only slightly older than how he appears running a towel through curly red hair. 

"Oh, shove it Leo. Just 'cause you're his favorite doesn't mean he's a god or something," Gwaine snipes. Leon throws the towel at Gwaine, who catches it ever so nicely with his face. 

"I'm not his favorite, I'm just the one who actually listens," Leon retorts, clapping Percy on the shoulder before nodding at Merlin. "I'm Leon, call me Leo though."

"Merlin," he feels like he's said his name a thousand times today, and the hair on the back of his neck is beginning to stand on end. His magic is surging at his chest, trying to break free of its containment and burst forth into the world. It has been a long time since Merlin has felt this much joy, this much confusion, but he isn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

*o*o*o*o*o*

The group remains together until they reach the living quarters, where Gwaine, Percival, Elyan, and Leon all part to shower and change. Gwen accompanies Merlin to the dormitory and then shoots him a smile. 

"I'm on the first floor, but I'll see you at dinner, right?" she asks. Merlin nods, unable to keep the grin off of his face. He bounds up the stairs two at a time, still reluctant to take the lift, cold metal death trap that it is, and skids around the corner to his room. He is well aware that he is supposed to appear to be a thirty year old man, but the childlike giddiness bubbling up in his chest makes him discard that mentality temporarily. It has been so long since he has had this many of his friends around him, memories intact or not, and he's drunk off of the possibility that maybe,  _just maybe_ he can have a life that isn't darkened by grief and loneliness for the next few decades. He is so wrapped up in his thoughts that he fails to notice the figure skulking down the hallway until he collides with a firm chest and lands on his arse. 

"I am so sorry," Merlin gasps, looking up and rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. His breath catches in his chest and he feels tears threatening to surface. Standing there, looking a little put out but holding out a hand, is Arthur. It has to be. He has the same golden hair, the same strong jaw, deep eyes, sharp cheekbones, and when he smiles at Merlin his teeth are still ever so slightly crooked. 

"It's fine, you okay mate?" he asks. Merlin takes the hand, and it is the same hand that has clapped his shoulder many times before, the same hand that has jerked him around, wielded Excalibur...Merlin feels himself starting to shake. 

"F-fine, yeah," Merlin stammers, blushing down to the roots of his hair. Arthur looks at him curiously, head tilted slightly, and his lips part curiously. 

"Say, do I know you?" 

Merlin's eyes go wide and his heart beats in double time, rattling his ribcage and fighting for the title of most annoying part of his body with his magic, which is vying harder than it ever has before to be allowed out. "I...I don't think so," Merlin finally offers, straightening his coat just so that he has something to do with his shaking hands. 

"Huh. You just look really familiar. Guess not though, I think I wouldn't forget ears like that," Arthur smirks. Merlin's heart immediately slows to its usual pace and he scowls. _Even in this life Arthur is an utter prat_ he thinks. 

"There is nothing wrong with my ears," Merlin replies, smoothing his hair over them. Arthur lets out a laugh that warms Merlin to the bones, and soon enough the two of them are laughing as if they are good friends. 

"I completely forgot," Arthur begins once they have stopped clutching their ribs and the tears have slowed. "I'm Arthur." 

"I'm Merlin," the grins are still plastered to both of their faces, wet and shining with laughter. 

"Well  _Mer_ lin, I've got some paperwork to fill out before dinner tonight, so I must be on my way. Will I see you later?" The way that Arthur says his name is like music to Merlin's ears and he nods enthusiastically. 

"I wouldn't miss it for the world." 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I have night terrors. Most of us do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delayed update, university sucked me in and chewed me up for a few weeks before spitting me back out. As always, comments and kudos are amazing, thanks to all those who have left them so far, and also I don't own Merlin unfortunately.

As Merlin walks into the dining hall, the first thing he notices isn't the way that it looks far more like a university mess hall as opposed to a summer camp's or the way that all of the people he has met already are clustered together at one of the only two round tables in the room, but the head of messy blond hair bent over a book. 

"Mind if I sit here?" Merlin asks, gesturing to the empty chair to Arthur's right. Arthur glances up, eyes wide and lips pursed in an image of concentration, but he shakes his head. 

"Go ahead," Arthur replies, flicking a pencil between his fingers with ease. Merlin sinks into the chair and his eyes are immediately drawn to the book that Arthur is almost hiding from him. The others are just peripheral noise right now; it has been so long since Merlin has seen Arthur in comparison to them that he guiltlessly ignores them in favour of his dearest friend. Graphite smudges across the white pages, and Merlin's breath catches painfully in his chest when he puts the lines together into an image. It's the citadel of Camelot. 

It's the citadel of Camelot and it's burning. 

There are knights sprawled out on the walls, dying or already dead, and Merlin knows that the knight pointing the sword towards the dragon that has just been sketched out on the corner of the page is Arthur himself. Tears well up in his eyes, completely unwelcome, as something dark creeps into his chest, something he hasn't felt for hundreds of years. 

"You're talented," he chokes out, blinking away the tears. Arthur glances up and pink streaks across his lightly tanned face. 

"Thanks," Arthur says, putting the pencil down to examine the drawing from a bit further away. 

"Where'd you get the idea for that one?" Merlin questions. Arthur's shoulders stiffen and his jaw tightens at the corner. Merlin opens his mouth to take back the question, to tell Arthur that he doesn't have to tell him, when Arthur speaks again. 

"I have night terrors. Most of us do," he says slowly. Merlin finally takes in the others sitting around the table, and all of them nod except for Lancelot. "I've always been good at drawing, so my therapist suggested that I draw the images to get them out of my head." 

"Does it work?" 

"Most of the time," Arthur says, nodding. "Here," he slides the book towards Merlin. Merlin's hands falter and his eyes grow comically wide. 

"I couldn't. This is...this is personal," he says, voice faint in the growing chatter around them. 

"This faire is built on trust. At the end of the day, if one of us screws up, we're all going down. So the princess here is extending a sign of that trust, our dear history expert, so that you can trust us, we can trust you, and we can all leave this faire at the end of the season without being more broke than we were before," Gwaine explains, squeezing Merlin's shoulder. Merlin sinks into the contact easily; their friendship was never one of complexity and it is nice as always to have Gwaine at his side. 

"Thank you. I won't let you down, I swear," Merlin says, and with that he scoops up the book. The first few pages are just sketches of the inside of the castle, the Pendragon banner hanging next to a sunny window, a maidservant (who Merlin knows but cannot quite name thanks to over a thousand years of separation) walking down a hall carrying a bushel of laundry, the kitchens where Arthur would steal sweet rolls as a boy, but then they take a dark twist. Valiant's snakes lunging at the viewer with venom dripping from their fangs, the Questing Beast dominating a page so blackened by charcoal that Merlin is astonished he can even see it...he almost drops the book when he reaches a sketch of him drinking from Arthur's poisoned goblet. He knows that it is him depsite the fact that the goblet is concealing his face; he knows those long, spidery fingers intimately, the curve of the throat with a single drop of poisoned liquid running down its length, the neckerchief he has long since lost, the embarrassingly large ears he finally learned to accept. 

"I'm pretty sure that he was my best mate," Arthur murmurs, tapping the page softly. Merlin glances up at him with furrowed brows. "I...well, my parents raised me in the neo-Pagan tradition. Past lives and all that. He shows up in my dreams a lot, and the ones where bad things happen to him," Arthur shudders so strongly that Merlin can't help but squeeze his wrist, "those are the worst." 

"I'm sorry that you have to see that," Merlin replies, swooping his thumb over Arthur's pulse point without even thinking of it. Arthur smiles a bit sadly, lost in the ghosts of a past he cannot fully explain, and then shrugs. 

"It's fine. It just makes me want to find him all that much more," Arthur says, taking back the book and tucking it into the leather satchel sitting by his feet. Merlin grins at that. If Arthur remembers, if Arthur _knows_ , maybe they can have what they did all those years ago once more. The prospect is thrilling and floods Merlin with something hot and reckless, gleeful in all of its stupidity, and it twines with his magic and surges out so violently Merlin is amazed that he can stop it from escaping his body before he puts on an accidental display of magical prowess. 

"I'm sure you will." 

"I'm not. I can never remember his face." 

The hope that had blossomed in Merlin's chest moments before vanishes, and he is left feeling more numb than he has experienced in a long time. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Penny for your thoughts?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the support and kind comments I've received on this work. I was a bit nervous about it, knowing that Merlin and Co. at the renaissance faire could be a bit ridiculous (and that goofiness will come, trust me) but wanting to produce something serious at the same time. You're all wonderful. As always, this work is not beta'd, so if you find any glaring grammatical issues or content conflicts, please let me know :) Comments, kudos, and subscriptions are always loved, thanks again to those who have already left them! xoxo Loki

The creek gurgles pleasantly as it winds its way through the trees. The forest floor is painted in shades of green and gold as sunlight filters through the trees, and all Merlin can smell is the sticky spice of pine needles and the earthy tang of oak leaves slowly decomposing beneath the branches they fell from. His chin is perched on his knees, and he wishes that he could simply cast all of the thoughts and memories ricocheting off his skull into the clear waters flowing before him, but it is impossible. A sigh escapes him and he draws runes idly in the dirt. 

Arthur remembers him, but not really. He knows that Merlin existed, that he was once Arthur's closest friend and one of his most trusted companions, but he does not know Merlin's name or remember his face. Perhaps one day he will put the pieces together and realise that the fingers he has drawn on multiple pages of his sketch book are the same as the ones that he sees when he watches Merlin (albeit a bit creepily) reading in the common room of the residence hall, that the large ears he has joked about on both his drawings and Merlin himself are the same...but Merlin cannot let himself hope to strongly. The first time someone had come back to him, he launched himself at a rather confused Gwaine, who took him for a drunkard and laughed as he pushed him away. There was no recognition in Gwaine's dark eyes, but he still had the same cocky grin and easy-going nature that made him who he had been in Camelot. 

Merlin has learned not to hope that they remember, but at the same time, none of them have had night terrors before. His brows furrow, a deep wrinkle settling between them, and he runs his hands through his hair. Why can they remember this time, even if it was just dreams? If they are even remembering Camelot. At the very least, he knows that Arthur's dreams and nightmares are of Camelot. But  _why_? 

"Penny for your thoughts?" 

He jumps out of his skin; he hadn't heard Lancelot walk over. Merlin's heart aches. Lancelot is as selfless and noble as ever, that much he has gathered in the few days that he has been in the States. The ladies and lads alike swoon over him. Tall, dark, and handsome has not gone out of style since the days of Camelot, and when combined with an honest and gentle nature that is frankly hard to find, Merlin is surprised that Lancelot isn't fawned over more. He chuckles to himself; Lancelot's nature had been recorded by more than just Merlin (and his many pen names), the fairy-tale knight having been modelled after him almost flawlessly. 

"Trust me, you don't want to know what goes on in my head. It's a terrifying place," Merlin replies, offering Lancelot a soft smile to indicate that he is trying not to offend the man by choosing not to share his thoughts. 

"Can't be much worse than having nightmares about walking into the land of the dead," Lancelot says, sinking down beside Merlin and picking up a smooth stone. He runs his thumb over it, sweeping the dirt away to reveal a milky white surface. Merlin stares at him for a moment. 

"What do you mean?" The question feels dumb to Merlin; he knows exactly what Lancelot is talking about. However, Lancelot's eyes are ringed by faint purple shadows and now that he's really looking he can see that the man's shoulders are tighter than a bowstring right now. 

"Now that's not exactly fair, now is it?" Lancelot asks, cocking his head to the side as he tosses the stone up and then catches it easily. Merlin can't help but chuckle. 

"I suppose you're right. I'm just...thinking. It's hard to explain," Merlin says, resuming his rune drawings. Lancelot scoots a bit closer so that they're shoulder to shoulder. 

"You look like a man who's stuck in the past," he says after a moment. Merlin sighs and lets his head tip back so that he's staring into the canopy of the trees. A robin flutters from branch to branch, a worm dangling from its beak. 

"I've been having nightmares as well," Merlin offers. It's not exactly a lie, but it isn't the whole truth either. "Sometimes they're of me being burned alive. Other times I watch the people I love dying, one after the other, some in ways too horrible to describe and others just of old age...but I can never join them. I don't die." 

Lancelot is quiet for a long time, and then he slings an arm around Merlin's shoulder and tugs him into his side. Merlin goes easily, letting his eyes fall shut. Lancelot had been his first good friend, the first man he ever truly invested his hopes in. He has missed him greatly. 

"I keep dreaming that there's this...tear in the world. It's big and black, and it screams...I know my friends are with me, one keeps yelling at me not to, but he's so wrapped up in trying to save the other that I just...I take the opportunity to walk into the hole. It's horrible. Once I go in, it's nothing but darkness, pain, screaming, cold...part of me knows I made the right choice, but it's just too terrifying to even put into words properly."

Merlin wraps an arm around Lancelot's waist and squeezes him tightly. Lancelot tips to one side and they topple over, Merlin sprawled out over Lancelot. They both start to laugh, warm and comfortable, and if Merlin ends up in the creek once they start rough-housing, he can't complain about it. 

*o*o*o*o*o*

That night, Arthur sits a bit closer to Merlin, is a little bit more open. Lancelot is grinning like the cat that got the canary, and even the usually stoic Percival is smiling. There's something warm hanging in the air surrounding the group, sweet and oh-so-fragile, but Merlin lets a bit of his magic trickle into it. It returns to him and coats his mouth with the sweet taste of honey. The inside of his chest feels like it does after he's had a few flagons of ale, and his limbs are looser than they have been in nearly a century. If there is one thing that his magic has told him, it is that there is a bond between each of them that can withstand even the test of time, of birth and rebirth.

For the first time since the Crusades, Merlin lets himself hope.  


End file.
